


Go Out and Paint

by starseedjenny



Category: The Black Donnellys
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pining, if you're looking for depictions of actual painting here you're going to be disappointed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:04:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9203102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseedjenny/pseuds/starseedjenny
Summary: (Joey Ice Cream narrates a tender interlude he was definitely not there for. Predates show's timeline. 3.5k)





	

 

 

When I have a terrible need of—  
shall I say the word—religion.  
Then I go out and paint the stars.  
-Vincent Van Gogh

 

 

If Tommy was being honest with himself, his fix on Jenny had started even before he'd asked her for a talk, before he'd tried to convince her to like Jimmy, before she'd confessed to him with frankness and boldness and kissed him on the cheek. He knew it predated that day because he remembered telling himself he couldn't like Jenny back, it wouldn't be fair to his brother—and anyway, they were just kids.

And it had been just a crush, nothing serious; at some point since, though, it had started coming with idle thoughts, and worry, and trying to watch without being caught watching. And a deep, sweet ache, low in his belly. He'd long since taught himself to shove it to the background when she spoke to him, even though it swelled and roared whenever faced with her pale gaze straight-on—but he didn't like to miss what she was saying, and anyway, missing her point was never a good way to keep a girl's confidence. And now that they were freshly grown up, now that he was going to school outside of the neighborhood, now that ten-year-old Jenny's puppy love was long past its statute of limitations—and now that he knew when he ached, he probably ached alone—Tommy needed to keep that confidence alive. Her indifference, should they ever grow apart completely, would be too much to bear.

Right now, as he stood in the cold and watched through the big window of Reilly's diner, she was serving three night regulars on the stools while her father changed out the coffee pots. No nonsense or wasted motion as she set down three of the heavy, off-white diner plates, loaded with cheeseburgers left open and fries spilling onto ruffled lettuce leaves. Grace in simplicity. She smiled briefly at old Pat Murray, whatever he'd just said—some little joke. Let her hand rest for a moment on his shoulder. He could see, even from here, her long fingers giving a light squeeze as she let go and turned away.

  
The sweet ache stretched inside him, wanting attention already. Tommy considered turning around, going home, going to bed early to tuck his hands behind his head and stare at the ceiling, because already he felt too much and too strongly. How could he possibly go in and talk to her, pieces of black hair loose and rocking at the frame of her face as she made circles on the counter with a white rag, clean apron tied a little low around her hips? Face Jenny, beautiful as the glow of traffic signals and brake lights down the dark street, reflected in the black of wet pavement, blurred by the steam from a sidewalk vent as it rose to meet a fine mist that had just begun to fall and speckle the diner window with ten thousand tiny golden reflections of her?

  
He flipped up the collar of his jacket just to have something to do, stuck his hands in his pockets. Sweetly aching, and nervous. That was stupid; they had been friends, known each other as well as anybody, their whole lives. In a way, talking to Jenny was almost just the same as going home. And besides, she looked like that every day. He had to get used to it eventually...right?

  
Just like that she was looking right at him—probably had noticed the movement when he had put his hands up to his collar like some kind of an idiot—and lifting a hand in casual greeting, hello, hail, and her face had turned instantly into a sparkling grin, just for him, and the sweet ache was bellowing silently from deep in his gut as he stood, legs full of weakness, by the door, thinking that maybe being an idiot wasn't so bad if it had gotten him that smile. He thought to raise a hand back and did so, a little awkwardly, a little late. He wanted to paint her just as she was, he thought erratically, even if it would pretty much just look like "Nighthawks" to everyone else, but then, he also wanted to leap in joy, weep, click his heels, sing, vanish and reappear, safely anywhere out of her keen sight. She always saw everything, he thought.

  
Tommy glanced momentarily upward—past fuzzy orange streetlight bulbs and to the flat black sky, in a gesture a little like an eye roll and a little like a prayer—and pushed the door open, making sure to give his shoes a little scuff on the mat.

-

Joey Ice Cream sat, orange-jumpsuited, knees akimbo, in the wobbly metal chair, pushed back from the table so he didn't have to gesture around it. On the other side sat a couple spooks, a taciturn, scary-tall black lady named Brown and a guy who had introduced himself as Agent Alexander Willis, but who Joey had been calling Mick because it fit him better.

  
Mick had asked if he knew anything about what might have happened to some firearms accidentally misplaced by one Lawrence Caravaggio, who had intentionally misplaced all their serial numbers prior. He didn't, but Joey hated to let anyone leave without at least a story—the only gift he could really give as a gracious host duly incarcerated—so he may have implied he was approaching a point about Larry's guns, just so Mick and Brown would stay. Joey liked Mick and Brown.

  
"Personally, for me, it's a little much. And you know I like girls, I've had my share of girls, but I know I've never had it bad as Tommy had it for Jenny. Poor dope."

  
Mick stared at him for a few beats. "You said this was back in..." He grabbed his clipboard and scanned his notes, irritably curling sheets over the back.

  
"November," Joey helpfully supplied, leaning forward to point to where Mick had put it down, at the same time as Brown, tight-eyed, said, "1999."

  
"You mind explaining to me what all of this Tommy-Donnelly, sensitive-art-student, pre-Y2K, mushy-stomach feelings crap has to do with Caravaggio's weapons shipment being stolen in 2006?"

  
Unfortunately, it seemed they were catching on. Fortunately, Joey had a lot of experience feigning innocence. Unfortunately again, he clearly wasn't any good at it, deducing from the cuffs and jazzy orange duds.

  
"You want to let me to tell the story or what?" he evaded. Brown re-crossed her legs and sat back with a heavy sigh, running a hand down her face.

-

Tommy had been trying to nurse them, take his time, but was already on his third black coffee. The regulars had long since left, wishing to beat the heavier rain which had indeed come and gone in the meantime—and with Reilly hanging around the kitchen like a hungry vulture, unconvincingly puttering back and forth "working," he'd needed an excuse to remain sitting at the empty bar and talking to Jenny. For her part, she had already diligently erased all evidence of prior coffees and was now wiping the stove for no less than the fourth time in the past hour. Tommy knew not one of them was fooled by either of the others.

  
Not that being here with her like this wasn't good enough for him, tension or no tension, but it was hard to melt into any real conversation with the old man shuffling back and forth, all-the-better-to-hear-you-with.

  
"Last call for food," Reilly announced, louder and with more gravel in his voice than strictly necessary, with a pointed glance up at the smudged wall clock. Tommy jumped a little at the interruption to post-storm silence and looked at the clock too, automatically; it was barely nine-thirty and the diner was known to generally close around midnight.

  
"Dad." Jenny's clipped response was immediate, like she'd been waiting for Reilly to speak. She punctuated it by flinging her sponge into the deep sink with a practiced _thwack_.

  
"What, Jen?"

  
Tommy felt a storm approaching and tried to avoid it. "You closing early, Mr. Reilly," he asked, not particularly bothered about sounding friendly.

  
Reilly pressed his lips into a thin line. "No customers _eating_ in here, so we might as well. Shame to waste a clean kitchen."

  
"You're being rude, Dad." Jenny turned away, and with a little forced lightness and a little shrug as she bent to open a drawer (for no visible reason, aside from avoiding eye contact) added, "It's Tommy, come on. He can stay if he wants, let him drink his coffee."

  
The loose parts of her hair were gently swinging by her face again, and the way she was stooping had inched up the back of her t-shirt to reveal a narrow strip of her lower back above her jeans. It arrested his eye more than it should have, something small like that. Like everything about her always did. To him.

  
Not one to be caught staring, not one to want to project disrespect, Tommy momentarily stopped to pinch the bridge of his nose, close his eyes, asking himself what the hell his problem was.

  
She straightened, nudging the drawer closed with her calf. "You need a refill, Tommy," she asked, ignoring how everyone in the diner could see the latest cuppa and that it was untouched.

  
"You know what, I think I will have, uh." He really didn't want anything. Something that wouldn't mess up the kitchen. "One of those muffins. Please."

  
A tiny barely-smile, only in her eyes. "Sure."

  
Reilly crossed his arms, and Tommy wasn't sure if it was a pose of annoyance or satisfaction.

  
"Wrapped up to go—I wanna talk to you outside for a minute, if you don't mind." Why not. What the hell.

  
It had been satisfaction Reilly had shown him, Tommy knew now, because it vanished instantly. "She minds. Got to help me close up the diner." Reilly shifted his feet a little farther apart, solid on the floor.

  
"Diner's clean, Dad, you said so yourself." She placed an unmarked white paper bag in front of Tommy, neatly folded down. "Let's take a walk, if you're not in a hurry?"

  
"Sure," he echoed, getting up. "Of course." He pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket, probably too much for the coffee and muffin but what difference did it make?

  
"It's dark—" Reilly protested.

  
"Be back later. I've got a key if you wanna lock up, okay?" Patted her front right pocket once, twice. Loosely folded her apron, threw it onto the counter. And they walked out the front door together.

  
Then Tommy had to jog back in to nod at Reilly and grab the bagged muffin he'd left on the counter, like a moron, shoving it into a deep pocket before jogging right back outside to where Jenny waited.

 

 

 

The wind barreled sharp and wet down the empty block, wailing through rooftop gutters, and Jenny shivered once, hard. Tommy looked her up and down in surprise; she didn't have a jacket. Without thinking, he pulled the zipper of his coat down.

  
"What are you doing?"

  
"You're cold, Jenny."

  
Obviously.

  
When he folded it around her shoulders, she tried to push it back at him; "Then you'll be cold. I'll just go back. Don't be stupid—"

  
Tommy persisted, pressing the coat on her shoulders with flat palms. "Don't think you would've forgotten yours if your father liked me better. I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

  
She laughed a little. "Sorry about that. He's just...you know, dads." Looking down, she bit her lip. Pulled her arms into the sleeves properly, hooked the zipper and drew it back up. It was huge on her, she looked like a child, but no, she didn't. After a moment she met his eyes, and smiled again, and said, quietly, "Thanks, Tommy."

  
Something about that was so pretty and so nice that Tommy's sweet ache rushed back in full force, hitting him like a gale, and his whole middle went so gooey and weak that he nearly fell to his knees, right in the dirty gutter with Jenny there to see. Instead, he put his hand out, and she took it with a squeeze, and he remained upright.

  
The freezing winter wind blew again, instantly raising nipples and goosebumps under his sweater, and instead of feeling annoyed, he felt his mouth curl up unbidden into a huge, embarrassing grin. A little cold was a small price to pay.

  
"Here, c'mere, this is stupid," she said, tugging on his hand. "I don't want to go home yet, let's get out of the wind, at least." He went, not knowing at first where she was taking him, and becoming even more confused when she took the keys from her pocket and opened the door to the Reillymobile.

She let go of his hand and slid all the way across the bench to the driver's side; Tommy climbed in after, pulling the door shut.

  
"Not for nothing, but where are we going?" But now she was twisted around and bent around her headrest, rummaging for something in the back seat. Presently she emerged with a visibly moth-eaten quilt—heavy and soft when she threw it at him. "Oh."

  
"The seats won't be so cold for long. Here, hang on—" She shrugged out of his coat, which oddly enough wasn't nearly as nice to watch as when she'd put it on, and, leaning against his side, draped it somewhat inadequately across both their backs. Having finally caught on, Tommy helped spread the blanket over them.

  
Jenny was shifting both lower in the seat and closer to him, and she kept squirming until he slid his arm over her shoulders and the folds of the old quilt came all the way up to her chin. She looked warm, and comfortable, and when she looked up at him again the dim light from the street outside cut across one of her pale eyes, so close to him, and he wanted to paint that, too.

  
He could feel her breath, gentle under the line of his jaw, and Tommy Donnelly found himself thanking God for the luck of the Irish, which he had long since decided was some kind of ugly joke. Nobody'd ever said it was _good_ luck, right? But tonight?

  
"You mind?" she asked.

  
A short, incredulous laugh burst from deep in his chest, loud and harsh in the face of this intimate quiet. Mind?

  
"'Course not." He felt his dopiest-looking, curled-corner Grinch smile come back. "'Course I don't mind."

  
Her eyes laughed at him. "Good, 'cause I just got comfortable."

  
When he wrapped his left arm around her back, he automatically began rubbing his thumb in circles on her far shoulder. And immediately, as though he'd pressed some unseen button or cast some spell, her eyes closed and she laid her head down against his chest. Tommy thought he might die. Her eyelashes lay in sharp relief, fanned across her cheeks. He thought he was living.

  
"You warm?" she murmured.

  
"Yeah, I'm warm."

  
The wind started up again and the car rocked gently, creaking, like a ship, like a cradle. Blocks away, a siren wailed, slow crescendo, slow decrescendo.

  
"Comfortable? I mean I can move, I want you to be comfortable."

  
"Jenny."

  
A lazy flick of her eyelids and she was watching him again, questioning, patient. His courage scattered—he pushed on without it, lifting his free hand to brush fingers across her cheek as tenderly as he knew how.

  
"I'm great." He opened his eyes wide, willing his face to somehow communicate his full meaning, all the sincerity and love of his wide-open heart. "Okay?"

  
"Okay," Jenny whispered, nodding slowly.

  
And next he knew, her hands were knotted in his hair, and she stretched her neck up to reach his mouth with hers, and he was in space, gravity and direction gone and no air to breathe at all, no matter how hard he gasped for it. She was nibbling at his lip and he hungered—so impatient that he pulled away from Jenny, unthinkable, just so he could go back and probe his tongue into the open hot wet of her waiting mouth, slick and bewildering. And she moaned, and it was a song, and he moaned, and it was a prayer.

  
He grasped at her thighs, too tightly, he worried, pushed her off his lap—how had she gotten there? when?—onto the seat, and she grabbed him by his collar, pulling him off balance and onto her. He fumbled at the button and zip of her jeans, clumsy and with no plan, harder than you'd think when she doesn't seem able to stop rolling her hips underneath you like the surface of the dark sea and your entire existence is ache and throb and need, need, need, need, and her frayed cuffs were damp and gritty in his palms from the pavement outside, and they were perfect, and this was right, and they were gone.

And they were so close that Tommy knew the smells of the cold and of the diner clung to the outside of her shirt, and even specifically that someone had ordered a mushroom Swiss not long before he'd gotten there that night. And then they were so close that he knew the inside of her shirt smelled like soap, and like warmth, and salt, and her. Jenny had fingers hooked through his belt loops, and she tugged as she rolled, and the sweet ache roared and suffered, jubilant, like never before, like he'd failed to imagine in half a lifetime, and Tommy knew with all his soul he would die—he would kill—he would live—whatever she wanted—forever—

  
He wasn't sure what he was saying out loud, anymore, versus what he kept in his heart, but her words as they washed over him were sweet and unbelievable, awesome and incomprehensible as angelic message, spoken from a tongue of panting holy flame.

-

"Now, Tommy had already had a couple years in art school," Joey explained, spreading his hands. "He got to see a new half-dozen naked chicks a week, like, on the regular. To draw 'em, or whatever. And this wasn't his first time fooling around in a back seat. But this? This was something else. There was no one else, not for Tommy, not anymore. Not _truly_. There was Jenny, and there was settling. Whether Tommy knew it or not."

Brown had resigned herself to wasted time and now seemed to be doodling a page full of nothing but stars in her notebook. Mick, squinting and rubbing the side of his index finger against his lip, bouncing the other hand slightly, palm up, waiting for wisdom and patience from God himself to fall into it, had clearly lost sight of the important things in life and was still trying to work out what this all had to do with Larry Caravaggio's missing guns. "Joey. The guns."

"Yeah?"

"What do you know about them?"

Joey Ice Cream hesitated, considered. He could wrap up the story, he could stall that much longer. He licked his lips. "Like I said, for Tommy, Jenny was a whole different thing, a whole other league. Like guys and Jenny and other girls were all totally different species or somethin'. So as far as Tommy was concerned, this was important. But just a couple of weeks later was the birthday where she gave him that scarf, and Reilly scared him, and Tommy told Jenny his greatest lie—that he'd met someone else more important. And then it was Teach's scarf, and so I don't have to explain to you further how Tommy lost one of the two things he ever really wanted most, just as it finally fell into his hands. Happiest moment of his life, until, uh, he got it back, however momentarily."

He paused, knowing what was coming next. "And I think that's probably a little like what it's like with Larry, with his big, special deal, set up all careful, and all his money and all his guns disappearing and all," he finished lamely, quickly, without the heart to pretend the connection he'd come up with was a satisfying one. It didn't make for a very good story, that was for sure. Waste of good material. Joey felt a little ashamed of himself.

  
He winced as the next few seconds stretched out and he had to watch Brown and Mick realize he'd run out of material, that the whole fuse had burned down and there was no bang. A dud.

  
"And...?" Mick prompted hopefully.

  
Brown stood so fast, her chair tipped over behind her with a _bash_. Hurled her starry notebook at the wall, and silently left the room.

  
Mick rubbed both palms slowly up his whole face and back across his growing bald spot, groaning. His voice was muffled by the front of his shirt as he gripped the back of his own neck. "Ohhhh, oh, Joey, you stupid bastard."


End file.
